


Platonic

by tastewithouttalent



Category: Soul Eater
Genre: Established Relationship, F/F, Fluff, Friendship, M/M, No Plot/Plotless, Platonic Female/Male Relationships, Platonic Male/Male Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-02
Updated: 2014-04-04
Packaged: 2018-01-16 10:21:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 10,262
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1343959
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tastewithouttalent/pseuds/tastewithouttalent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A set of ficlets playing with platonic friendships across three established relationships.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Winning

Giriko knows he’s in trouble from the way Azusa takes a breath, like she’s gearing up for some grand reveal.

“Fuck,” he says aloud even before she’s reached for the letters. “You’re gonna win.”

The crossbow pauses, fingers still hovering over her tiles, and looks up so the light reflects off her glasses and obscures her eyes. “You haven’t seen my word yet, you can’t possibly know that.”

“I can see  _you_ ,” Giriko fires back. “You’ve got that  _look_.”

“What on earth do you mean?”

“The look where your face goes perfectly calm cause you’re trying real hard not to gloat.” Giriko kicks his legs out sideways so he can sprawl across the floor; Azusa’s got hers folded under her, like she has since they started this most recent round. Her legs have  _got_  to be asleep but she looks utterly calm and composed; she wouldn’t be out-of-place in the Death Room, the way she looks right now.

“I don’t  _gloat_ ,” Azusa says, but she’s starting to lay her tiles out and Giriko is half-distracted by watching the word she’s putting into place on the board.

“You do too,” he says absently. “You’d be a hell of a lot less fun if you...oh for  _fuck’s_  sake that is  _not_  a fucking word.”

Thin eyebrows raise behind shining glass. “I think you’ll find that ‘calcitrant’ is indeed a word, if perhaps not one in  _your_  vocabulary.”

“See,” Giriko groans. “You  _do_  gloat. Though right now that ain’t much fucking comfort.” It makes it worse that he gave her ‘ant’ to work from. She wouldn’t have had enough damn letters otherwise. “My vocabulary ain’t  _that_  bad, anyway. I beat you at this sometimes.”

“Rarely,” Azusa offers calmly.

Giriko glares at her rather than admit that her description is far more accurate than his own. “Fuck you, four-eyes. I should never have agreed to play Scrabble with you. At least I kick your ass in poker.”

“Why did you agree?” Azusa asks, fishing another hand of tiles out of the bag near her hand.

“You know,” Giriko growls. “I’m not sure right now.” He pulls two tiles off his own tray and reaches out over the board. “Though I think it might be coming back to me.” He places the R and the E just in front of Azusa’s last play and looks up in time to see the crossbow’s eyebrows fold down in irritation over her eyes. The shine is gone off her lenses now.

“Ah, yeah, there is it,” he purrs, rolling back away from the board. “ _That’s_  why I agreed. It’s fucking  _satisfying_  to beat you at your own game.”

“Fuck you,” Azusa says, carefully enunciating the word so it sounds as precise as her speech usually does instead dripping with the visceral satisfaction it picks up in Giriko’s mouth. The chainsaw grates a laugh and rolls over onto his back properly, shutting his eyes to bask in a moment of victory.

Azusa takes a breath, and there is the click of tiles touching down on the board. “Of course, we seem to have different definitions of  _beating_.”

Giriko’s eyes snap open. Shit. That was her gloating tone again. “What.” He pushes himself up just as Azusa is leaning back from the LY she’s added to the end of the word. “Oh you  _fucking bitch_. I thought you didn’t  _play_  with ‘cheap tricks’?”

Azusa shrugs one shoulder under a perfectly crisp shirt. “I do prefer to win without them, certainly. But I  _really_  prefer to win.”

Giriko narrows his eyes at her. “I thought Death Weapons were supposed to have morals.”

Azusa stares at him for a moment. There’s a pull of a smile at the corner of her mouth and Giriko gets the distinct impression she’s fighting back a laugh. “How many Death Weapons have you met, exactly?” She leans back, unfolds her legs. At least she flinches as she straightens her knees. “If you wanted morals you should have played with Marie. Or Justin, maybe.”

“Eh.” Giriko drops back to the floor, sighs. “You’re more fun to play against than they are.”

“You’re taking this well,” Azusa observes from the other side of the table. “Usually you throw a fit when you lose.”

Giriko lifts one hand, catches the edge of the Scrabble board, and tips it up so all the tiles slide off to scatter over the crossbow’s lap. “There. Happy?”

There is a brief pause. When Azusa speaks, Giriko can hear the laugh under her voice. “Yes, thank you.”

He grins without opening his eyes. “Welcome.”


	2. Focus

There has been almost no sound at the kitchen table for the last few hours: the shuffle of paper, the soft sound of breathing, occasionally a clink of a cup against a saucer or a spoon into the sugar bowl. Neither Justin nor Azusa is prone to much movement, left to their own devices, so the room has been absent even the idle scuff of shoes against the floor that always accompanies Marie or the huffed sighs the hammer sometimes offers into extreme silence.

When Azusa does finally move, it’s a slow process of coming back into herself from the haze of focused thought she had wrapped herself in. Her foot is asleep from the angle at which she’s been sitting; she flexes the muscles to work out the worst of the pins and needles while she blinks at the opposite wall and waits for her vision to clear.

“Everything alright?” Justin hasn’t looked up from the papers spread out in front of him. He tends towards expansion, spreads his word out neatly over as much space as is available to him, while Azusa keeps hers stacked so she’s never looking at more than one document. It makes a good combination, even if they do end up using the entirety of the square table in the process.

“I’m going to make another pot of tea.” Azusa stands, once she can trust her feet to take her weight, and takes the pot from the table into the kitchen. It’s a simple process, not involving much thought on her part, which is for the best because her brain is starting to go fuzzy with too much effort. This’ll have to be the last round of tea and work or she’ll start making mistakes.

Justin appears as intent on the work in front of him as ever when she returns with the full pot, but he looks up as Azusa sets it down and leans back in his chair with no sign of needing to mark where he is. “Ah. Thank you.”

“Of course.” They both shift their papers slightly to the side and pull their cups in; Azusa fills Justin’s first, then hers, and the blond is offering her the sugar bowl as she sets the pot down. They sip not-quite-in sync, Justin a beat behind the crossbow, but neither looks back down at the stacks of paperwork in front of them right away.

“Marie would be appalled,” Azusa observes, surveying the spread of documents in front of her. “We’re supposed to be bonding, you know, not catching up on work.”

“We are bonding,” Justin retorts. “I find this extremely soothing. It’s incredibly difficult to get things done in my own apartment.”

“Giriko?”

“Giriko.” Justin doesn’t expand, but he’s smiling faintly and Azusa can’t quite hold back a smirk either. “He takes productivity as a personal affront to his own charm and personality.”

That actually gets a laugh proper out of the crossbow. “I can see that. I don’t know how you manage to stand him, really.”

Justin’s smile goes dark and secretive. “You probably don’t want to know.”

“I  _know_  I don’t want to know.” They catch each other’s gaze, and the smile Justin gives Azusa is an exact echo of the one she gives him.  
Azusa takes another sip, sighs in satisfaction, and slides the cup slightly to the side so she can pull her work back in place. “Last round?”

“Sure, if that’s all you’ve got in you for today.” Justin’s tone is almost sincere, tinged just faintly with concern, but the consideration swings a little too high at the end and drops into condescension.

Azusa snorts a laugh without looking up. “Giriko’s rubbing off on you. You never used to tease me.”

“Maybe you just never noticed.”

The crossbow’s eyebrows go up, but she can’t fight back the smile breaking over her face. “It’s a good change.”

There is a pause. “Thank you.”

Quiet descends over them again, broken only by the faint sound of Azusa pausing to refill their teacups or Justin silently offering her the sugar.


	3. Dancing

“You look great,” Spirit offers as Azusa makes her way through the crowd to him. It’s true. She is usually well-dressed at work, certainly, neat and professional with just a hint of understated frill at the collar of her shirt and in the flare of her jacket, but she has gone to another level for tonight. The longer front of her hair has been pulled up and braided in some complex fashion over her ears to keep it out of her face and her black dress has the odd drape of particularly heavy fabric. When she turns her back on the bar to look out over the milling mass of people in front of them, the skirt swirls slow around her knees before falling back into place.

“You too.” Azusa doesn’t sound bitter, exactly, but the words and their implied compliment have very little of the warmth such comments usually contain. Still. It  _is_  a compliment, the first Spirit can remember ever receiving from the other weapon, so he counts it as a victory.

“Thanks,” he says without looking at the crossbow. He can still see the shine of her glasses in his periphery; he doesn’t want to push his luck by calling her out on the unusual situation. “You a good dancer, then?”

“I am an excellent dancer.” Again, there’s nothing in her tone but honesty. “I understand you think rather highly of your own skills.”

“Sure. I just didn’t think you had it in you to unbend far enough to actually be any good.”

Spirit can see her eyebrows raise without even turning to look at Azusa properly. “I didn’t think you had it in you to obey the rules far enough to actually be any good.”

Spirit huffs and offers his hand. Azusa takes it. Neither of them have looked at each other properly yet. “How about I show you?”

“I look forward to it.”

They make their way out onto the floor, center themselves in a circle that is more-or-less clear, and fit their arms around each other. Azusa certainly  _feels_  more relaxed than Spirit expected -- her spine actually curves, for one thing, and she’s a lot softer than he really expected or is used to, what with the lack of feminine interaction in his current relationship. With the heels she has on she’s very close to his height; she might have an inch on him were it not for the slight increase he gets from his own dress shoes.

He glances at her. Azusa’s looking right at him, her glasses translucent for once, and he gets the strange sense of accidentally invading her thoughts he always does when he can actually see the blue of her eyes.

“You ready?” he asks.

“Anytime, Death Scythe.” There  _was_  emotion there, a faint flicker of heat that is very,  _very_  nearly a taunt, but then the music picks up and Spirit starts moving before he can really pull the thought clear in his mind.

The small bitter part of his mind half-hoped that Azusa would be dreadful, that he’d be able to out-dance her in a matter of minutes and retire flush with victory. But that would leave him back where he started -- namely, lacking a skilled and willing dancing partner -- and that is really not ideal, so much so that he is pleased, albeit shocked, when she capitulates gracefully to his lead. Her feet move just inches in advance of his, like she’s just anticipating his movement and responding perfectly without any indication that it requires effort from her. Spirit’s own slightly panicked hold around her waist and her hand relax at the ease of their motion and become more natural, and Azusa smiles just in his peripheral vision.

“I was wondering if you were going to maintain that stiff hold the whole time,” she comments. “Glad you relaxed.”

“I wasn’t sure you were going to let me lead,” Spirit admits. He barely has to lift his arm, just gives Azusa’s back the faintest of pushes, and she shifts and turns to spin away before stepping back in.

“Following your partner’s lead is part of being a good dancer,” she observes as they come back together. “You thought I would try to drag you around?”

“It seems more your style.”

Azusa huffs a sigh. They move apart, Spirit turning this time, and she’s half-smiling when he comes back. She looks alarmingly like Stein as she fights down her smirk. “I do whatever i takes to excel at my pursuits. In the Death Room that means taking charge. In dancing it means following my partner’s lead.”

“I’m impressed,” Spirit says. He means it honestly, and for a moment Azusa is quiet.

“You’re very good,” she finally says. Spirit can barely hear her over the sound of the music, she speaks so softly, but when he does catch the words he can’t hold back the smile that comes in response.

“Really?”

He can feel Azusa laugh more than he can hear it. “You know you are.”

That makes him smile again. This time they both move in perfect sync, so he’s not sure if he initiates the twirl or Azusa does. Her skirt flares out against his legs before they come back in and pick the rhythm back up without thinking. “I do, yeah.”

“We should do this again.”

Spirit blinks. “It’s only the first dance. You’re sure you want to put up with me for another night?”

“Shut up.” Azusa says, nearly companionably. “I’m good at judging people. And you’re a pleasure to dance with, if you’d just stop  _talking_.”

Spirit grins, but he does stop talking, and by the time they wave goodbye to go back to their respective homes, Azusa is smiling too, and it doesn’t even look forced.


	4. Drinking

Azusa is more than ready for the carefully measured knock on the door when it finally comes. The apartment is a mess, or at least a mess compared to its usual pristine state, and she has been pointedly reading on the couch for the last hour rather than making any attempt to tidy the space. It’s not like Stein’ll mind, anyway.

The meister doesn’t even offer a greeting when she opens the door, just holds up the glass bottle of amber liquid by way of saying hello.

It’s enough for Azusa. “Oh thank god, please come in.” She steps out of the way and Stein comes in, shoving the door shut behind him as Azusa heads back down the corridor. “You and  _especially_  your whiskey are most welcome.”

“Bad day?” Stein asks calmly, as if her calling and demanding company and alcohol wasn’t confirmation enough of that in itself.

“I had to teach one of Sid’s classes.”

“Ah.” Stein extends the bottle without further comment and Azusa takes it before retreating around the corner to the kitchen so she can procure two glasses.

“You?” She offers with her back to the meister, who is currently staring out the window with his hands in his pockets. “Or are you just here to keep me company?”

She can hear the raised eyebrow in Stein’s voice when he speaks without turning to actually see him. “Would my company really be preferable to drinking alone?”

“Don’t beg for compliments, Stein, it doesn’t suit you nearly as well as it suits your weapon.” She splashes an inch of whiskey into both glasses and leaves the bottle on the counter, turning back to offer Stein one of the two cups.

“It suits him, then?” the meister asks, accepting the drink from her.

“I didn’t say that,” Azusa clarifies. “Just that it  _really_  doesn’t suit that aura of omniscience you like to cultivate.” Stein chuckles and sips at his drink without moving to sit down. The whiskey is very good, though Azusa is not sure if that’s inherent good taste in Stein or something he’s picked up from judging her reactions to his repeated offerings. It doesn’t much matter, just that the alcohol consistently gets better every time he shows up and that this is no exception. The bite of the liquid down her throat and the burn on her tongue are rich and dark and she’s smiling before she even has to think about it.

“So.” She takes another sip, gestures towards Stein with the hand holding her glass. “You never answered my question. How was your day?”

Stein shrugs. “Classes are much less of an ordeal for me than they are for you.”

“A fact that never ceases to amaze me,” Azusa interjects.

Stein glances at her and takes another drink from his glass. “But Spirit’s out with Maka tonight and I’m between experiments at the moment.”

“Are you  _lonely_?” Azusa asks, shocked enough that it bleeds into her voice. “I didn’t think that was something you were  _familiar_  with.”

Stein’s laugh has the sharp edge of true startled sincerity from his throat. “Not familiar with, yet, but I have been gaining exposure to it. It’s elucidating, if not pleasant.”

“Well. Congratulations.” The word is flat in Azusa’s mouth, but it gets a smirk to twist over Stein’s lips and he lifts his glass in a half-toast before downing the last of the liquid. Azusa imitates him and takes the bottle to top off both their glasses before they head to the table by unspoken accord.

“How’s Marie?” Stein asks as they sit down. His words have the lack of emotion his small talk usually displays; it makes it sound like he’s following a script. Of course, he probably is, and at least he’s asking.

“She’s fine.” Azusa smiles into her glass. “Better than fine, usually she’s a delight to be with. But she loves people, especially kids, and occasionally her sunny disposition is not what I am in the mood for.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Stein deadpans. It makes Azusa laugh, the amusement coming easy as the alcohol burns warm under her skin.

“See, that’s  _exactly_  what I’m in the mood for tonight.”


	5. Cookies

The knock on the door comes while Marie’s hands are covered with brown sugar and the measuring cup is half-full of the stuff. She’s expecting it, though, and she’s left the door unlocked, so when she yells “Come in, it’s open!” there’s only a beat of hesitation before sunshine pours down the hallway from the entrance.

“Marie?” Giriko sounds mostly confused and slightly irritated at the lack of in-person welcome, from what Marie can catch of his tone.

“I’m in the kitchen!” she calls back. “Just shut the door and come on in.” The door swings shut and there’s the sound of heavy footsteps down the hall before Giriko comes around the corner to see what she’s doing.

“Sorry,” Marie offers as she dumps the sugar into the bowl. “I thought I’d just get things prepped and then time got away from me.”

“Somehow I’m not surprised.” Giriko grins, the sharp edges of his teeth catching the light, but he’s setting a shopping bag on the counter and his irritation seems to have vanished. “You’re not all that great at planning, blondie, you know that?”

“Yeah, I know.” Marie stirs the sugar and flour together in the bowl in front of her and tips her head to smile at the other weapon. “I’m good at cooking, though, and I understand that makes up for a lot.”

“Sure.” Giriko steps in behind her and begins fumbling through the cupboards for a mixing bowl. “Goes a long way to offsetting my own charming personality.”

“You are charming!” Marie retorts, turning with the bowl cradled in her arm.

“Didn’t say I wasn’t.” Giriko locates a bowl and goes to the fridge to procure a pair of eggs. “Problem with your ears as well as your sense of direction?”

Marie rolls her eyes. “I live with Azusa, I can recognize sarcasm when I hear it.”

“Yeah, well.” Giriko helps himself to the ingredients Marie has spread out over the counter. “If you think I’m charming you’re in the minority. Must be your sugar-sweet personality blinding you to the faults of others.”

“See?” Marie sets the bowl down next to Giriko’s and bumps him gently with her hip. “Charming.”

“Fuck off,” the chainsaw offers, but he’s grinning when Marie chances a glance up at him, and the words are more affectionate than harsh.

“That’s all ready for you,” Marie declares, gesturing towards the bowl. “I’ll get the cookie sheet ready.”

“There’s frosting in the bag,” Giriko offers. “Once they’re cooked and cooled.” He dumps the mess he’s been stirring in his bowl into the larger one Marie mixed and starts blending them together by hand. “If anyone asks you were the one who insisted on the frosting.”

“Of course.” Marie pulls the container out. “You know, we could have made our own.”

“Eh.” Giriko shrugs one-shouldered without pausing in his stirring. “It’s a lot of trouble and that stuff’s basically as good. Besides, the kid likes that crazy colorful shit although he won’t admit it.”

Marie glances back at the other weapon, but Giriko’s not looking at her so he doesn’t see her eyebrow raise at this implicit consideration of Justin’s preferences. She considers commenting, but after a moment decides against it and goes back to the cookie sheet without speaking.

Giriko is more aware of the admission in his comment than Marie thought he was, though. After a moment he clears his throat and asks, “What about Azusa? She doesn’t seem like the cookie type.”

“She doesn’t,” Marie agrees. “And she won’t let on around anyone else. But she can go through a half-dozen cookies in one sitting if she’s not paying attention. She likes them with her tea when she’s working.”

“Work.” Giriko infuses the word with a whole world of disdain. “I dunno why she feels like she’s gotta be on top of things all the time. Justin’s the same way. You and Death Scythe clearly don’t waste your life with documentation.”

“Azusa thinks its soothing,” Marie says, setting the cookie pan on the top of the stove. Giriko taps the mixing spoon free of the finished dough before tossing it into the sink, and they both reach into the bowl to pull out handfuls of dough and start rolling them into spheres. “And she and Justin mean that we don’t all have to be entirely dedicated to it all the time. I appreciate it, usually.”

“Yeah, well I don’t,” Giriko growls, dropping the first cookie onto the pan and reaching for another. “He’s distracted way more than he should be when he’s at home. It takes some real effort to pull him away, you know.”

Marie opens her mouth to comment on the possible reasons Justin might have for convincing Giriko to ‘pull him away,’ then closes it and contents herself with a conciliatory “Mm.” It seems to be enough; Giriko subsides, focusing on rolling spheres of cookie dough in time with Marie, and by the time the pan is full and deposited in the hot oven he is smiling idly.

“Those’ll take a while,” Marie observes, crouching down to peer into the oven. “We’ve got fifteen minutes to waste before they’re done.”

There is a beat of silence. Giriko clears his throat, and Marie gets to her feet without looking at the chainsaw.

“Do you want to catch the end of that new soap opera?” she asks, carefully not looking at him.

“Fuck yes I do.”

Marie smiles and turns to lead the way to the living room, the other weapon following just over her shoulder.


	6. Fighting

Giriko very nearly turns and leaves the bar when he sees the redhead at the counter. He doesn’t, partially because he actually wants a drink, partially because he won’t admit that Death Scythe’s presence is enough to chase him away from anywhere, and partially because picking a fight seems highly entertaining in spite of his exhaustion. It’s the last that adds an extra swagger to his step and that motivates him to swing into the stool alongside the redhead, careful to catch the other man with an elbow as he sits down.

“Death Scythe,” he declares as the other weapon turns at the contact. “Imagine finding you in a place like this. Drowning your woes? Did the good doctor finally come to his senses and kick you to the curb?”

Death Scythe’s eyebrows draw down low over his eyes and his chin drops down. Perfect. Giriko grins at him, anticipating the retaliatory comment even before it comes.

“A little quick to jump to that, aren’t you? Justin realize you’re nothing like good enough for him?”

“You sound bitter.” Giriko catches the bartender’s eye and jerks his chin towards the row of liquor bottles against the back wall of the bar. “Jealous, pretty boy? Your dick not good enough to keep the kid around?”

Death Scythe chokes on his drink -- Giriko doesn’t know what it is, something neon orange that probably tastes like sugar -- and glances at Giriko with watering eyes from the burn of alcohol. “ _Justin_. And  _me_. Are you serious, Giriko? You’re losing your touch if that’s the best implication you can manage. Though you have successfully been as crude as ever, well done on that front.”

“Ah well.” Giriko takes the glass of whiskey the bartender hands him and drinks half in one overlarge mouthful. It makes his throat burn but he fights back the urge to cough. It’s no good showing weakness in front of the other. “I must be going soft, all this time with you fucking Death Weapons.”

He doesn’t realize the double entendre in his words until Death Scythe snickers into his drink. He groans. “Oh, for  _fuck’s_  sake, are you five years old?”

Death Scythe’s chuckle turns into a full laugh and he takes another drink. He looks a little pink, color sitting high on his cheekbones with the telltale flush of intoxication. “Sometimes.”

“I dunno what someone smart as Stein sees in an idiot like you.” Giriko gestures for a refill, extends his glass so the bartender can top it off.

“And I don’t know what Justin is doing settling for you,” Death Scythe offers back, but it lacks any real fire. He lifts his nearly-empty glass and extends it in Giriko’s direction. “Here’s to our insane boyfriends, yeah?”

“He’s not my  _boyfriend_ ,” Giriko snaps.

Death Scythe rolls his eyes ostentatiously and keeps holding his glass out. “However you want to dodge the subject of being in a committed relationship is no concern of mine. You going to toast or not?”

It’s not that Giriko does it to get Death Scythe to leave him alone. He wishes it was, but really he can think of no good reason to refuse a toast to the two absent, and in the moment his glass taps against the other man’s he can’t quite fight back the smile at the thought of Justin’s face if the blond were to see them right now.

There is a moment of silence after they both swallow that is bordering on companionable before Giriko is able to speak and head off the danger. “Why  _are_  you here? Don’t you have enough booze and company at home? Or does Stein really not mind you picking up girls?”

Death Scythe tips his head back and laughs with every appearance of sincerity. “Do you see any girls with me? Other than you, of course.”

“That was weak,” Giriko comments. “Obviously you’re the girl between the two of us.”

“It was the earrings that threw me off.”

Giriko gapes at Death Scythe for a moment before looking back at his drink. “That.” He takes a mouthful, swallows slowly while he considers. “That was actually pretty good.”

“Thank you.” Death Scythe is smiling with the loose comfort of the somewhat tipsy, but a little bit drunk apparently makes him a lot less irritating. Giriko would be nearly amused, if he let himself think about how he actually feels in the moment.

The quiet is just starting to spread again when the redhead speaks. “Yeah, I’m not here to pick people up. And we’ve got lots of alcohol at home, honestly better stuff than what I can get here. No offense,” he says, lifting a hand in apology to the bartender. “Stein’s really developed a taste for whiskey recently, actually, so we’ve had a lot of that at home. It’s just kind of nice to be out and about sometimes, rather than just drinking at home.”

Giriko hums and swallows another mouthful. “Yeah. I know what you mean.”

“Is that why you’re out?” Death Scythe asks.

“Nope.” There’s too much left in the glass for a single mouthful. Giriko downs it all at once anyway. “Justin and I are fighting.”

“Oh.” Death Scythe flinches. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be.” Giriko smiles. “I’ll get drunk and come home and we’ll have a really angry fuck. Those are the best, actually.”

“Ah.” Death Scythe’s mouth twists like he’s not sure whether to cringe from too much information or laugh. “Good?”

“You and Stein don’t do that?” Giriko tips his head to look at the redhead. The alcohol is burning through his skin pleasantly at this point. He’s not even really angry; fighting with Justin is kind of an art form, at this point, this is just the next step in the process. “You’re missing out, man.” His eyebrows draw together in consideration. “Though Stein might actually kill you if you pissed him off.”

Death Scythe raises an eyebrow. He is properly smiling, now. “You think Justin wouldn’t?”

Giriko shrugs. “That’s half the fun, really.”

Death Scythe tips his head in capitulation. Giriko collects another refill, lifts the glass to gaze at the amber liquid within for a long moment. Then he extends the glass without turning his head to look at the other weapon.

“To --” He isn’t sure what he wants to say, really. His mouth won’t form properly around the word  _boyfriends_ , and he doesn’t quite want to echo the other’s toast anyway.

“Us,” he finally says, not sure if he means himself and Death Scythe, or all four of them, Death Scythe and Stein and Justin and himself all together. The redhead doesn’t ask for clarification before he clinks his glass against Giriko’s, and although they’re not looking at each other both are smiling as they swallow.


	7. Warm-Up

Stein wasn’t really expecting Giriko to arrive on time. It’s not a problem. He’s had plenty of time to warm up, stretch, and take a few practice kicks and jabs at the unresisting air. By the time Giriko draws into sight his skin is warm and flushed from the sun and the exercise both, and when he drops into a more casual stance he’s on the verge of smiling without even thinking about it.

“Hey,” he says by way of greeting as the chainsaw comes into earshot. “How are you?”

“Hungover,” Giriko says. He looks it, bleary and half-awake, eyes even more shadowed than Stein’s usually are. His shoulders are up around his ears as if to protect himself from the attack of the sunlight and he’s squinting at the meister with no sign of any kindness.

Stein rolls a shoulder, cracks the joint without thinking. “We don’t have to spar this morning.”

“What, worried I can’t take it?” Giriko manages to raise an eyebrow and twists the corner of his mouth into a grin. He must be doing relatively well after all, if he’s managing a smile. “I can’t have you youngsters thinking you’ve got the better of me. I could take all of you in a fair fight. Or an unfair one.”

Stein smiles. “Had one already today?”

“The kid gets up too damn early,” Giriko complains. He sheds his jacket and tosses it unceremoniously aside, leaving just a thin tank top to protect him from the warmth of the sunlight.

“Ah.” Stein sets himself, watching Giriko as the chainsaw moves in case the other decides to start the match before they’ve officially declared anything. It wouldn’t be the first time. But whether it’s the hangover or just a sense of sportsmanship, Giriko just straightens and shifts his shoulders in a slow ripple of movement.

“What’re the rules?”

Stein’s eyebrows go up. That’s new. The first time they sparred Giriko came at him without any warning, chains up full-speed, and Stein had to Soul Force him twice before the chainsaw even slowed. Declared rules have  _never_  been standard. Of course, just because they’re stated doesn’t mean either of them will necessarily abide by them.

“Hands and feet,” Stein says without thinking about it. “No weapon form for you, no Soul Force from me. You can take some time to warm up if you’d like, as well.”

“Nah.” Giriko shifts his feet, unmistakably settling himself even though there is nothing official about his stance. “Come at me, screwhead, show me what you got.”

Stein smiles, aware even as he does so that it touches his uncovered eyes but doesn’t extend any warmth to the man in front of him, and comes forward without waiting for any more invitation.

He starts out slow, throwing easy punches and a few kicks that gently increase in speed as he goes, attempting to give the chainsaw a chance to warm up for all that he refused the option initially. But Stein’s barely started sweating properly when Giriko growls, “What the  _fuck_ , you going  _easy_  on me?” and brings his leg up so fast the meister has to stumble sideways to dodge the worst of the impact. The chainsaw’s knee still clips his ribcage bruisingly hard, although he manages to keep his breath and his stance, and Stein draws back while he adjusts his approach.

“Apologies,” he offers without further explanation.

“Damn straight,” Giriko hisses, still glaring at the meister. He’s the one to start the next approach, comes in close to swing his booted foot hard at Stein’s face. It’s easier to see the attacks coming with a little distance, doubly easy because Stein’s familiar by now with Giriko’s standard attack method, but even seeing it coming doesn’t let him diminish the force behind the impact. He catches it on his arm instead of his cheekbone but has to shift sideways to absorb some of the force rather than blocking it entirely, and Giriko grins. He hasn’t taken his hands out of his pockets yet.

“Afraid of standing and taking it?” he asks.

“Not fond of breaking bones I don’t have to.” Stein says. “It’s just good strategy to avoid major injury.” Giriko’s leg comes in from the other side, as he usually does, and Stein shifts back in the opposite direction. “And you’re predictable.”

“Fuck you,” Giriko hisses, and there’s a fist now, he usually  _never_  throws punches this early. Stein does catch that, grabs Giriko’s wrist and stops the motion just shy of impact, because Giriko’s kicks are devastating but the meister has the edge in upper-body strength.

“You’re learning some variety, I see,” Stein observes. He’s a little breathless but they haven’t even really started fighting yet; this is all warm-up still to determine how the rest of the match will go.

“The kid,” Giriko growls in explanation. Another kick. Stein lets that one connect, grunts at the impact, but his fist sinks into Giriko’s stomach so the chainsaw’s breath blows out of him and he can’t keep talking for a moment. He stumbles backward and Stein lets him gasp for air until he can manage, “Keeps getting my ankles in that damn weapon form of his. Gotta learn to get the upper hand with my fists.”

“It’s making you a better fighter,” Stein observes as Giriko comes forward, somewhat hunched to protect his stomach this time.

“Yeah, well.” Another brief flurry of knees from Giriko and hits from Stein; this time the chainsaw catches the side of Stein’s knee with a kick and the sharp pain knocks the meister off-balance. “I guess he’s good for some things.”

Stein smiles, and Giriko grins back at him, the sunlight catching off his teeth as much as the metal over his nose, and then the fight really starts, and there’s no more attention to spare for conversation.


	8. Lunch

Justin waits at Marie’s front door for several minutes after knocking. He has knocked twice and is starting to consider leaving entirely when the door bursts open to reveal a very flushed Marie smiling up at him.

“I told you to come in.” He can see her mouth move around the words, but he’s so busy watching her lips as she’s speaking that he doesn’t realize she’s looking at his ears until her mouth curves into a rueful smile. That doesn’t give him enough warning before she reaches out for his face, and he freezes instead of flinching back while she tugs one of his earbuds free.

“I forgot about these.” He can hear her now in his uncovered ear. Justin reaches up to pull the other free before Marie can move to do it and tries on a smile. It feels odd and he doesn’t think it’s quite hitting his eyes, but Marie’s whole face lights up like the sun has come out, and when she smiles properly up at him his own melts into something a little more natural.

“Come in,” the blond says, turning to lead the way back into the apartment. She leaves Justin to hesitate before stepping inside and easing the door shut behind him. The house smells delicious, like bread and tomato sauce, and it’s almost uncomfortably warm from the heat of the oven. When Justin makes his way down the hallway and through the living room, he find Marie frowning in concentration at a saucepan on the stove.

“It’s not quite right,” she says over her shoulder, clearly speaking loud enough for Justin’s benefit. “Come here and tell me what’s wrong.”

“I...I don’t really cook much,” Justin starts to protest, but Marie reaches out to close her fingers on his wrist, and when she pulls he doesn’t have much choice but to stumble forward to stand next to her at the stove.

“Here.” She spoons up some of the red sauce, blows gently on the substance, and trails her finger through it to collect some on her skin before offering her hand to Justin without looking. “Taste and tell me what’s missing.”

Justin can feel himself starting to flush, self-consciousness freezing him in place, and he leans forward quickly to touch his tongue to the sauce before he can get caught up in panic at the idea itself. Marie draws her hand back without looking to suck the rest off absently, still frowning at the pan in front of her.

Justin is still pink, warmer than he should be, but he tries to focus on the taste of the sauce on his tongue and not the uncomfortable pressure of standing this close to someone other than Giriko. “Uh. It’s not spicy enough.”

He feels like the words are foolish, too vague to be any help, but Marie snaps her fingers like he’s said something genius. “I knew I forgot something! The cayenne, of  _course_ , I should have  _thought_  of that.” She turns away to reach for a bottle and sprinkles the spice over the surface of the sauce. “That’s it. Thanks Justin. You can sit down, this’ll be ready in just a minute or two.”

It’s significantly longer than two minutes before Marie comes out with the first bowl, and nearly fifteen by the time she carries out the plate with slices of garlic bread and actually sits down with Justin at the table, but Justin’s not complaining. The dining room is bright with sunshine from the open windows and quiet and tidy in a way his own apartment never is, not since he brought Giriko home. He fits his earbuds back in and stares out the window at the occasional passerby on the street below, and by the time Marie sits down and smiles at him he feels nearly comfortable in his own skin again.

“I hope you’re hungry,” she says as she offers him the bowl of pasta.

Justin takes it with both hands so he won’t drop it as Marie lets go. “You did tell me we were going to eat.”

“I wasn’t sure that would have stopped Giriko from forcing lunch into you.” Marie takes the pasta back in exchange for the bowl of sauce. “He’s convinced you’re going to fade away if he doesn’t feed you every few hours.”

That makes Justin laugh. “He was still asleep when I left. Lucky for me he tends to sleep in late on the weekends.”

“Well, you can tell him I did as promised.” Marie smiles over the table at him. “He made me swear to make you an enormous lunch, so I can’t let you leave until you’ve had at least three servings.”

Justin’s eyebrows go up. “Really. How long do I have to consume all this?”

“I think he’ll fret himself into insanity if you’re not back for dinner.” Marie smiles. “Does he tell you these things?”

Justin looks down at his plate, but he can’t quite hold back his smile. “Not to my face.” The chainsaw doesn’t have to. Justin is good enough at reading people, or at least at reading Giriko, to understand what the chainsaw’s hissed irritation and sharp-edged taunts mean. When the priest looks back up, Marie is looking at him and smiling in a way that says that Justin’s not the only Death Weapon able to read between the lines.

She doesn’t say anything, though, just reaches out to rest her hand gently on Justin’s shoulder. Justin doesn’t flinch away, this time, and they’re both smiling when Marie pulls away and they both turn back to lunch.


	9. Casual

When Justin opens the door to his apartment, it is only the hair color that lets him recognize the man standing there. In all the time he’s been a Death Weapon, Justin’s never once seen Death Scythe out of his suit and button-up shirt. The other man’s tie has come undone once or twice, in the heat of combat or the flush of alcohol, but usually for all his reputation as a flake he at least dresses the part of a Death Wepaon. Justin didn’t even know the older man  _owned_  a pair of blue jeans, much less a pair that  _fit_ , and these have the faded look of years of use and fit in a way that entirely removes the possible explanation of them being Stein’s. And that’s just the pants. Death Scythe’s also wearing a t-shirt nearly as faded as the jeans, so thin the logo across the front is wholly unreadable, and his hair is pulled back into a  _ponytail_ , of all things. It all combines to freeze Justin where he stands for a moment; he only remembers to blink when Death Scythe laughs and runs a hand over his hair with a gesture familiar from countless Death Room meetings.

“You gonna invite me in or just stand there staring?”

“Oh,” Justin says, feeling his blood come back alive after the brief flash stillness of shock. “Sure. Sorry. Come in.”

“Is it that weird?” Death Scythe asks as he follows the younger weapon into the apartment. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost. It’s the shirt, isn’t it.”

Justin has to laugh. “It’s the  _hair_ , mostly. And it is that weird, I’ve never seen you wear anything but your suit.”

“I can’t wear a suit to play video games,” the older man points out. A finger jabs against Justin’s back. “ _You’re_  not usually so casual yourself, but you don’t see me losing my mind about it.”

Justin flushes self-consciously, but from his leading position DeathScythe can’t see his face, and when he speaks his voice is cool enough to offset the heat in his face. “I’m just dressing my age.”

“Yeah, well, you’re --  _hey_!” Justin grins as Death Scythe catches up to the implication. “I am  _barely_  thirty, you little shit, this is  _perfectly_  reasonable. Giriko wears shit like this all the time.”

“Giriko’s not a  _father_ ,” Justin sniffs. “Or a Death Weapon. I thought you had a reputation to uphold?”

“You’re a lot more irritating outside of work,” Death Scythe points out as they round the corner to the living room. “Maybe I’ll take my excellent company off and leave you here with your youth to think about the mistakes you’ve already made.”

“No you won’t.” Justin claims the best spot in the center of the couch, leaving the older man stuck with the sideways-facing seat that always leaves the player with a crick in his neck after a couple hours. “You’re bored and you’d do anything rather than be bored. Put the game in and hand me a controller.”

“You’ve been taking notes in reading me from Stein,” Death Scythe grumbles as he moves to obey. “And lessons in being domineering from Azusa. It’s not an attractive combination, at your age. Just makes you seem bratty, you know.” His tone is deliberately condescending, and Justin can’t quite restrain the amusement in his voice when he answers.

“Giriko seems to disagree with you.”

“Giriko throws you into  _walls_  whenever you piss him off. I’ve  _seen_  him do it.”

“And you think that’s not my end goal?”

“You  _are_  a brat,” Death Scythe comments, but he hands over one of the controllers, and Justin accepts it without further response. “So. You want to do co-op or versus mode, to start? We could try co-op, seeing as you’ve not played before.”

“Versus, of course,” Justin declares. “I have a steep learning curve.”

“Well, at least you don’t mind handing the victory to me,” Death Scythe says as he sets the mode. He sighs and shakes his head. “The impetuousness of youth. It’s charming, really.”

“Keep telling yourself whatever you want, old man,” Justin says calmly, ignoring the indignant squawk this pulls from the other weapon. “You’re not leaving until I win.”

By the time Giriko comes in, Justin’s on his fourth win in a row, well on his way to offsetting Death Scythe’s collected victories, and the redhead’s hair is falling loose around his face. Both weapons wear identical grimaces of concentration. The chainsaw pauses in the doorway, looks from one to the other, and starts grinning before he turns to go to the kitchen without interrupting.


	10. Understanding

Stein hears the front door open as if from a great distance. The sound echoes down the hall to the darkened room where he’s sitting, and he’s not sure if it’s the distance or the acoustics or just an error in his hearing that makes the space sound so cavernous. There’s nothing else to listen to, anyway. Spirit keeps the voices away, at least, but sometimes, days like today, there’s nothing in Stein’s head but a low buzz of static that his best efforts with the screw can’t shake. Sound is painful, the clink of dishes or the scuff of shoes equally excruciating, and Stein flinches with every step that comes down the corridor towards him even as some back corner of his mind relaxes in anticipated relief.

Justin doesn’t speak when he comes around the corner. It’s something even Spirit hasn’t quite been able to grasp, the trick of engaging in an interaction without announcing one’s presence. At this moment it’s the singular trait Stein appreciates most in the younger man. The Death Weapon moves across the room to the tangled mess of electrical cords in the corner, still silent from repetition and familiarity. Stein blinks at him, vision oddly uninterrupted with the lack of his usual glasses. Justin moves more smoothly, now, a little less stiff at the edges of his body like he’s properly inside his skin instead of operating a machine with extreme proficiency. It probably has a slightly negative effect on his combat skills, some part of Stein’s brain notes absently, but Spirit would consider the change positive for Justin as a person, so the meister is inclined to agree just for lack of any personal judgment on the matter.

The first notes of music hit the static in Stein’s thoughts and dissolve it apart into fragments, a fine powder of sharp-edged glass robbed of all its threat. He breathes out silently; there’s no sign of the sigh that the exhale feels like in his head, but there’s a shift of motion at the corner of his vision as Justin smiles and sits at arm’s length from the other. The blond head tips back, the priest shuts his eyes, and his breathing steadies to fit into the rhythm of the music almost instantly. Stein has to consciously think about it, has to relax and let the heartbeat of the sound sync up with his own; he’s certain that for Justin it comes easy, instinctively like partnering with a meister never did. The meister breathes, lets the music peel the static clear of his thoughts cleanly, and gives up all his attention, even the last restraint he maintains even in the midst of Resonance, to the demands of the sound.

The self-that-was-once-Stein has no idea how long they’ve been sitting there when the music fades into silence and his self starts to trickle back into his blood. He blinks -- his eyes have been open but unseeing -- and Justin shifts slowly, like he’s waking up from a deep sleep. The blond doesn’t speak even when they are both back in themselves, just quietly stands and moves to retrieve his music player. His footsteps are almost silent, now, just a faint whisper on the floor that Stein can only pick up when he pays attention to it.

He can feel Spirit coming down the hall well before the redhead’s body eclipses the faint light coming in through the doorway. “Hey Stein. Justin.”

Justin half-turns and nods without speaking, and Spirit looks down at Stein, reaches out to almost-touch the meister’s shoulder. “You okay?”

“Better,” Stein offers as a response. The words are unimportant, but he lifts a hand to brush his fingers against the weapon’s wrist, and the contact and the smile that the scythe gives him feel like the most important things in the world.

Spirit looks up without moving his hand, all the lines of his body going elegant and relaxed with the release of vicarious stress. “Thanks for coming over, Justin.”

The priest glances at the other weapon and offers him another careful nod, but as he moves to leave he catches Stein’s gaze, and both their mouths quirk in briefly identical smiles of understanding. Then the weapon moves away down the hall, and the meister looks up to meet the lingering traces of concern in Spirit’s eyes, and when he smiles up at his partner the last of the worry evaporates.


	11. Culture

Marie’s face is set into lines of utter seriousness when Spirit opens the door to the lab.

“Mjolnir.” He nods to acknowledge the blond.

Marie nods back. “Albarn.” She holds up the plastic bag at her side. “I have brought the necessary supplies.”

“Popcorn?”

She nods sharply.

“Soda?”

“Naturally.”

“Marshmallows?”

“And gummi worms. Who do you think I am?”

Spirit narrows his eyes at her. “You might have been an imposter.” He steps aside from the door. “But your knowledge of the requirements is unimpeachable. Clearly you must actually be yourself.”

Marie holds her stern expression as she steps over the threshold with as much dignity as if she is stepping onto a stage. For a moment the tension drags painfully tight, Spirit biting his lip and Marie avoiding eye contact. Then the blond glances sideways, tipping her head to see around her eyepatch, and the twist of repressed smile at the corner of her mouth entirely shatters Spirit’s composure. The laugh bursts out of him like an explosion, his control of his expression vanishes, and Marie starts giggling uncontrollably just after he loses it.

They laugh in the hallway for a minute before Spirit can pull himself back together; it takes Marie a bit longer, so her shoulders are still shaking when the scythe turns back from shutting the door and reaches out to hug her shoulders one-armed.

“Good to have you here, comrade,” he says against the top of her head, doing his best to eat a mouthful of golden hair as he speaks. Marie reaches up with her free hand to wrap her fingers tight around his wrist in lieu of the hug impossible with the bag she’s holding. Spirit takes it from her with his free hand so the hammer can loop her arm around his waist.

He can’t see her smile from this close and his extra height, but he can hear it in her words when she speaks. “So what’s on the menu today? I see you’re still not over last week’s Bond marathon.”

“I was meant to be a secret agent,” Spirit bemoans. “I could have changed the world, you know. I’ve got all the defense I need in my blood, who needs concealed guns in watches or whatever?”

Marie shakes her head sadly. “Shame you had to be stuck fighting off the embodiment of Madness itself.”

“One of them,” Spirit clarifies as they move down the hallway towards the living room. “I’m pretty sure I’m living with another.”

There is a time when Spirit would have dodged the subject in consideration of the other weapon’s feelings. There was also a time when Marie wouldn’t come over to the lab at all. Now the blonde giggles without a trace of trauma in the sound. “That’s  _got_  to make you the third party to insanity, then. At least some of us had the good sense to find someone  _sane_  and  _reasonable_  to fall in love with.”

“If you think Azusa is reasonable I am afraid I need to fret about you as much as Stein. Maybe more.”

Marie pokes Spirit in the ribs. “Your frame of reference is somewhat skewed, dear.”

Spirit shrugs. “I can’t really argue on that point. I live a bizarre live at the whims of my meister, not least staying in this dark box of a house. Did you know natural daylight blinds me now?”

“Soon you’ll be a full-blown vampire,” Marie sighs.

“Only think,” Spirit says, sweeping through the air in front of him as if he’s laying out a stage. The effect is only somewhat undermined by the full bag still held in his hand. “The lace. The velvet. The  _ennui_. I would be a  _fantastic_  vampire.”

“No one’s arguing,” Marie soothes him, stretching up so she can pat his shoulder. “Yet another calling you missed.”

“You could be a magnificent damsel,” Spirit allows. “Buxom and blonde, innocent in a white nightgown until you fall to  _corruption_. Then you could stalk the night, drawing in unsuspecting fools with the appearance of fragility before you  _crush_  them.”

Marie laughs again. “I’m not sure, are we watching vampire movies today or noir? You seem to be shifting gears pretty rapidly from succubus to femme fatale.”

Spirit heaves a sigh. “Vampires, yeah. Noir’s next week, for sure. Unfortunately time is not on my side and we can’t actually do them all at one sitting. Well,” he amends. “We  _could_  but I don’t think Azusa would let me survive keeping you that long.”

“True,” Marie says as if considering the problem. “She tends to worry that Stein has gone on another experimentation kick if I’m here for more than half a day.”

“And we have nothing like sufficient supplies for such a marathon,” Spirit points out.

“Clearly.”

“Next time we’ll see what we can manage. Do you think we could persuade Azusa to come over to join us sometime?”

“I am under a strict vow of silence regarding Azusa’s film preferences,” Marie dodges.

“Oh,  _that’s_  intriguing,” Spirit chirps as they separate, Marie to settle into the couch and himself to queue up the video player. “Am I allowed to guess?”

“No,” Marie says firmly as Spirit starts the first movie and comes back to join her on the couch. “I’m terrible at lying, you’d figure it out even if I never said anything.”

“Too bad.” Spirit stretches out over the other side of the couch and kicks his feet up on the coffee table while Marie lies down across the cushions and puts her feet in his lap. “It would be great to have ammunition on her. Hand me the marshmallows.” He reaches out to fish out the gummi worms, trades them to Marie in exchange for the other sweet, and they both subside into the comfort of the film, the snacks, and the company.


	12. Platonic

Stein is perfectly punctual, down to the minute; it’s just exactly three o’clock when the knock comes on the front door, which means that Marie is elbow-deep in potting soil and more startled than if the meister had come early.

“Shit,” she says to herself, then, louder so her voice carries out to the front. “Let yourself in!”

It’s only a minute before Stein comes down the hallway to stand at the entrance to the balcony; he must have not hesitated at all before taking the weapon up on her offer. Marie looks up, as best she can around the mess of hair falling in her face, and offers a sideways smile.

“Sorry,” she says, nodding towards the pot she has balanced between both knees and the trembling leaves of the plant she is lowering into the same. “I thought I’d get started and lost track of time.”

Stein waves his hand, as if to brush aside her apology and explanation at once. “I expected as much.” He’s dressed casually, by which Marie means he has left his lab coat back at the lab and is instead wearing what appears to be a t-shirt, surprisingly free of stitching and radiating color, a dark blue that makes Stein’s hair look somewhat silver rather than a flat grey.

“That’s a nice shirt,” Marie observes as Stein kneels down across the pot from her. “You should wear colors more often.”

Stein’s mouth curls into a smirk though he doesn’t look up. “So I’ve been told. Repeatedly.” He reaches out to take the plant from Marie’s hands, his own fingers gentle and steadier than he own, so she can hold the pot still while he lowers the transplant into the soil. “I was ‘not allowed to leave’ until I put on something my weapon deemed adequate.”

“How awful,” Marie says with no audible trace of sarcasm in the words. Stein still looks up sharply at her, and his smile grows wider.

“Truly, I suffer.” The seedling settles into the pot and Stein gently pushes dirt in against its partially exposed roots. His face goes oddly slack as his hands move, all of his focus dedicated to the visual input and physical movement of his body. Marie imagines, with no personal evidence, that this is what he looks like when he’s operating, all the calmly competent focus of combat less its vicious satisfaction. He looks nearly normal, the usual eerie shine to his green eyes replaced with calm consideration.

“Do you like this?” she asks. Stein is reaching for another pot and the half-empty bag of potting soil, and he doesn’t cease his movements as he lifts his gaze to meet hers.

“Hm?”

“Gardening. Do you enjoy it?”

Stein blinks and looks down at the pot and his hands and the bag like he’s just seeing them. There’s a beat of hesitation; then he smiles, slow and so warm that for a moment the Stein Marie knew as meister is unrecognizable in the man’s features.

“I do,” he says, slowly, considering the words as he speaks. “It’s a pleasant distraction.”

“You could try it with Spirit,” Marie points out. “So you don’t have to wait to connect with me.”

Stein laughs and moves to pour dirt into the pot. “Spirit kills plants by looking at them sideways. It’s unfortunate but true. Best that you keep the garden and I offer support rather than a home for the plants.” He pauses, adds another shake of dirt, and sets the bag aside before steadying the pot between his hands so Marie can begin settling the next plant into the soil.

“And besides, your company is as pleasant as the work itself.” He says it very casually, just stating a fact rather than offering Marie one of the only compliments she’s ever received from him. The weapon only hesitates for a moment before she pushes away the shock.

Still, she can’t bite back the smile, and it’s audible in her words even when she attempts to imitate Stein’s disinterested tone. “It’s always good to know my efforts are appreciated.” She glances up just in time to catch Stein’s eyes, and they smile at each other in the sunshine for a moment before both bending back to the task at hand.


End file.
